Mutantor Omnia Nos
by paperwingsandbrokenlegs
Summary: Title means "All Things Change." Just a wee drabble from various perspectives. Read and Review :


_Disclaimer: Don't own. Everything belongs to the Moff, BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

_I'll keep this short and sweet, since no one wants to hear the author ramble on when there's a fic to read._

_'Mutantor omnia nos' is Latin for 'all things change'. This is basically a vignette about things changing, as the title indicates._

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1. Lestrade used to have dark hair. When he was in his teens, it was a rich, deep brown. As he grew older, it lightened slightly to become a more common sort of chestnut shade. When he first met Sherlock Holmes, it was a nice sandy brown. Barely five years have passed since then, but his hair has since turned completely grey. There is literally not one strand of brown hair on his head; he's checked. He blames Sherlock.

2. The police forces of the country earned his contempt a long time ago, when they refused to see sense about missing shoes. He still wrote in to them on numerous occasions after that incident, not out of the hope that they would actually act on his reasoning, but because he couldn't bear knowing and not telling; not showing someone, anyone, that the solution was right _there_. When Sherlock was sixteen, he rang the Yard and told them which post office would be hit next in a string of similar robberies; the robbers had been taking nothing of great value and no one had been hurt, but it was a good bit of fun to figure out the basis on which they picked their targets. They arrested him. That was the day he lost all respect for the police.

He's as high as a kite when he walks past a crime scene one November night and cannot help himself; he walks over and everything that runs through his mind comes tumbling out of his mouth in a rushed freefall of words that sound slightly incoherent even to himself. He still has some sense left, though, and bolts when the guy who looks like he's in charge ducks under the cordon and comes towards him. The incident is all but forgotten the next day, until someone knocks on his door around midday. He introduces himself as Detective Inspector Lestrade and wants to talk to him about the case. There is still a line of coke on the table. Sherlock demands to see the body. And the case files. He takes a witness statement with him when he leaves. Not once in the entire proceedings does Lestrade make a sound about arresting him. Not even when he takes his ID.

At the end of it, he gives Sherlock his personal number and tells him to give him a ring anytime he needs anything. After being called to fetch the laptop from the opposite end of the room for the second time, the privilege is revoked. The inkling of respect that was exchanged with the card is not.

3. He doesn't even learn John Watson's name until he gets a frantic call from the man saying that he knows where Sherlock has gone and come quick because he's going to confront the killer. During the drugs bust, the man looked mousy and out of his depth, but Lestrade could almost see a dark cloud hanging over him as he ambled along under Sherlock's shadow. He was uncertain, tentative and clung tio the cane in his hand like it was a dinghy and he was a drowning man. Lestrade hopes that Sherlock does not become the final straw to John Watson's very nearly broken soul.

He is a little bit surprised when Sherlock stops midsentence and runs off to discuss the rent with John Watson. He is a little more surprised when Dimmock tells him that John was at the banker crime scene. And again when both Sherlock and John come to the Yard to harangue Dimmock about something or rather, which ends in Sherlock characteristically telling Dimmock to 'take his word as Gospel'. Just when he thinks he is done being surprised by the fact that John has basically turned into Sherlock's sidekick of sorts, the man turns up at the Yard, alone, requesting to see some evidence related to the case. As he exchanges words with Dimmock, Lestrade watches him through his glass wall. Gone is the slump in his shoulders and the aura of sadness that trailed after him. His eyes are bright and the corners of his lips are turned up, as though threatening to break into a smile at any moment. In his time knowing Sherlock, he has seen many people come to the consulting detective's door; seen them at his beck and call. Never before, though, has he seen someone do it willingly.

4. He has been asked more times than he can count why he lives with Sherlock even though he can now afford a place of his own. When he tells his friends about how he found Sherlock's latest experiment nestled in the still-three-quarters-full butter tub or how he has never in the history of their time together bought the milk, they narrow their eyes with worry and ask him why he puts up with this.

The only person to ever get an answer is Harry. They are having lunch at the Ritz when he gets a text.

_Come home at once. SH_

He shakes his head and replies.

_Is it an emergency? A proper emergency, that you would call 999 for?_

"Is that Sherlock?"

"Yeah. He wants me back at Baker Street, for some reason."

"Is it an emergency?"

"It could be anything from Sherlock wanting me to pass him pen to a criminal mastermind threatening to blow something up because it's Tuesday."

She snorts in clear disapproval. His phone beeps again.

_Am ignoring your appalling grammar. Mycroft visiting. Suspect possible kidnapping attempt. SH_

John cannot help the smile that crosses his face. It tells Harry everything she needs to know. She leans back in her chair and asks, exasperated, "Why?"

"He gave me my legs back."

5. Guy, in the tradition of Londoners everywhere, had no idea who he was living next to until he saw her loading her things into the back of a Jeep one winter morning. He wondered how long the property would be listed, and then thought no more of the matter. He was at work when the new tenant's things were delivered, or he might have caught a glance of the almost obscene amount of books and papers and thought that he was living next to an academic type. He was too busy debating the merits of buying a new flat-screen telly with Ash to see him carry a box of his more treasured items in, or he would have seen the skull and wondered where he bought such a realistic model.

He is watching Waterloo Road on the new flat-screen when he hears a loud banging sound through the wall. Raised voices follow, although not loud enough for him to hear what is being said. He's just about lost in the drama again when he hears somebody yell "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe; I'm trying to think."

Good lord. Barely a moment later, he hears someone else say "Get back now, please."

Waterloo Road gets muted. He's barely hit the button when he hears the first speaker yell again "Mrs. Hudson!"

Things go quiet for a little while after that. Ash is always going on about him being an insufferable busybody, so he decides to prove his partner right and presses his ear against the wall. There is a lot of movement going on in the flat next door. A large family, possibly? He spends the next few moments trying to decipher the various sounds, until the sound of a door slamming catches his attention. It takes him a moment to realise that someone might have left the flat. Quickly rushing to the window, he sees a tall man in a long, flowing coat talking to a cabbie. As Guy watches, he gets into the taxi and they drive away. About a minute later, a whole lot of other people stream out of 221b. A whole lot of police, as well as persons whom he would guess are plainclothes officers. A tendril of thrill creeps up his spine even as annoyance blooms in his mind. Great. His new neighbour is some sort of criminal. A criminal who appears to have just evaded the police. Then again, if he were a criminal, he wouldn't be telling the police to shut up. Nor would he have been obeyed. Interesting. Mrs. Turner would get the story out of Mrs. Hudson soon enough.

He is brushing his teeth when Ash calls him to come to the living room, now damnit. He's standing at the window. "Look, those are the new folk next door."

Guy looks out. Sure enough, the tall, possibly a criminal fellow is patting his pockets for the key whilst a shorter, blonde guy stands next to him. The two could not look more different; the taller man's coat looks expensive and he hold himself ramrod straight, while the shorter man is wearing a shabby looking coat and seems altogether more friendly. They do not appear to be related. Friends, then? Lovers? Mr. Possibly a Criminal finds the key, opens the door and they vanish into the flat.

The next morning, those strange suicides have made the headlines again. Only this time, it is good news; they have caught the murderer. A cabbie, apparently. He's about to flip the page when something catches his eye. It is a photo of the officer in charge of the case, a DI Lestrade. With no small amount of surprise, Guy realises that he saw him yesterday, emerging from 221b. He puts the paper down for a moment, wondering for the first time in his life whether he should know just who he was living next to.

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_Well? What did you think? Whose perspective came off best?_

_Review, please. Constructive criticism is especially welcome._

_Also, am working on another fic. I would like some opinions as to whether Sherlock is more likely to give a dog an English, Latin or French name._

_Ciao :)_


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